


Fly

by ignipes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-27
Updated: 2005-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:31:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius has always loved to fly. Seven scenes from his life and one from his afterlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly

_i. promise_

Sirius has been looking forward to this holiday for weeks. He has Uncle Alphard's letter tucked into his pocket; he takes it out every few minutes to read it again. He doesn't have any trouble reading his uncle's joined-up writing anymore, and he decides that it's time for his little brother learn to read joined-up writing, too.

Unfolding the letter for a five thousandth time, Sirius scoots across the seat of the sofa. They are waiting in the study for their tutor, Mr. Whiplander, to arrive. He's late again. Sirius hopes he's so very late that there's no time for lessons at all, because then he can go upstairs and organize his trunk for the holiday and maybe finish drawing his very own Quidditch team, the one he's going to buy when he's a grown up and has all his father's money.

"Look," he says, holding the letter up so Regulus can see. "This says, _I promise that when I arrive I will teach you to fly a broom._" That's the line he's been reading over and over again, even though he has it memorized. Uncle Alphard _promised_, and he never breaks his promises.

Regulus doesn't even look at the letter. "Me, too?" he asks, kicking his legs against the seat.

"No," Sirius answers. "You're too little to fly a broom."

"I'm six!"

"And I'm eight. Two whole _years_ older," Sirius adds, just in case Regulus has forgotten how important those two years are. "You have to wait until you're eight before you can learn to fly."

Regulus thinks this over for a moment, then says, "Okay."

Regulus always says everything is okay, even important stuff like having to wait until he's eight to learn to fly. Sirius heard Mum talking to Mrs. Berkle the other day while they were having tea in the garden, and Mrs. Berkle said she must be so proud of her sons, because Sirius is the smart one and Regulus is the pleasant one, and anybody would be proud to have boys who are so smart and so nice all the time.

Regulus asks, "Will Uncle Alphard teach me, too?"

"Maybe," Sirius says uncertainly. They don't see Uncle Alphard very much anymore. He lives in America now, and Mum always gets a funny look on her face when he comes to visit. "If he doesn't, I will," he promises. "I'll know everything there is to know about flying." He'll be ten, after all. Ten is probably old enough to fly the fastest brooms in the world and do upside-down tricks and play Quidditch and everything.

"Okay," Regulus says again.

Then Mr. Whiplander comes in, and Sirius has to stop thinking about flying and start thinking about Latin. As Mr. Whiplander drones on and on about declensions, Sirius peeks in the back of his book to find the Latin word for _broom_.

-

_ii. race_

It's raining the day the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff first years have their first flying lesson, but it's not raining hard enough for Professor Stork to cancel the class. He stands between the two even rows of brooms, flinching as the light drizzle speckles his glasses and drips from his long moustache. He's talking about how to say, "_Up!_" and how to mount the broom and how to balance, but Sirius isn't listening. He knows all of it already. Uncle Alphard taught him, and Alphard was the Slytherin Quidditch captain when he was at Hogwarts, winning the Quidditch Cup three years in a row.

Sirius' stupid roommates are standing across from him, at the other row of brooms. They didn't save him a broom, so he's stuck on this side with a bunch of dumb Hufflepuff girls who keep whispering about how _scary_ flying is. He bets that prat Potter told them not to leave any room for him. They're all whispering now behind their hands, not listening to anything Professor Stork says. Even though Sirius can't hear they they're saying, he knows it's about him. This morning he woke up with a toy snake and a Slytherin tie on his pillow.

Well. Sod them all. He straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin. They may not want him in their stupid house, and he didn't want to be there anyway, but the Sorting Hat said _Gryffindor_ and he's going to prove to them that he's the most Gryffindor student in the history of Hogwarts.

Professor Stork finally stops talking and gives the students permission to mount their brooms. Along both rows of brooms, eager eleven-year-old voices shout, "_Up!_"

Most of the brooms just roll over or twitch, and the students groan in disappointment. Sirius' broom jumps into his hand right away. He smiles triumphantly, but his smile fades when he sees that Potter's broom has jumped up, too. Sirius mounts his broom the way Alphard taught him, watching as Potter does the exact same thing. They both coax their brooms a few feet off the ground, eyes locked together in challenge. Professor Stork, busy with the students who can't even figure out _Up!_, glances over his shoulder and gives everyone else permission to take one slow, careful loop around the field.

Sirius pulls ahead of the cluster of scaredy-cat girls immediately. The cool rain mists across his face, but he doesn't go slow. He's disappointed that rickety school broom with the crooked bristles isn't nearly as good as the one he had to leave at home, but Sirius leans forward, relishing the feel of the wind whipping over him, and banks neatly as he nears the end of the Quidditch pitch.

Then he sees, out of the corner of his eye, that Potter is flying alongside him.

Scowling, Sirius urges his broom to go a little faster.

Potter does the same.

Sirius lowers himself until he is lying flat along the broom and pushes ahead.

A second later, Potter is beside him again, so close that Sirius can feel his robes whipping against his leg.

"Shove off!" he shouts, veering away.

Sirius isn't about to let some arrogant prat who looks like he's wearing a hedgehog on his head fly faster than _him_. He swerves a few more times, short, jerky motions dangerously close to the bottom of the Quidditch stands.

Potter doesn't say anything, but he tracks Sirius' maneuver perfectly, veering alongside him and keeping pace, grinning like a bloody lunatic and watching Sirius through his rain-spattered glasses.

They're almost all the way around the pitch now. When they catch up to the slow-poke Hufflepuff girls Sirius flies right through the middle of the group; the girls cry out and one of them falls onto the sodden grass, but he ignores them.

Potter steers around the girls, but he does it so quickly and smoothly that he catches up right away and he's beside Sirius again.

Pushing the broom to go so fast it starts to tremble, Sirius grudgingly admits to himself that Potter might be a decent flyer, after all.

But there's no way Sirius is going to let the git beat him. He keeps going faster and faster. The wind and rain are whistling by his head; his robes are whipping behind him; he's dimly aware of somebody shouting and the other students gaping stupidly from the center of the pitch; he's starting to feel a little dizzy from looping around the Quidditch pitch; but he's doesn't slow down, and neither does Potter.

Then there's a flash of light -- for a split second Sirius thinks it's lightning -- then his broom _stops_, like hitting a wall. Sirius, however, doesn't stop. He tumbles head over heels off the front of the broom, skidding across the grass in a painful tangle of robes and ties and James Potter, finally coming to a stop facedown with a mouthful of mud.

Sirius looks up, picking grass out of his teeth. The brooms are hovering placidly several paces behind them. Professor Stork is striding across the pitch, shouting about rules and detention and points, his face comically purple above his black robes. The other students are cheering and laughing.

Potter, sprawled on the grass beside Sirius, nudges his crooked glasses up his nose. "That," he says, breathlessly, "was bloody _brilliant!_"

Sirius grins. "Betcha I can beat you next time."

Potter looks at him appraisingly. "Yeah?" Then he snorts in disbelief. "You wish."

"Scared?"

"No way, Black. You're _on_."

-

_iii. reckless_

James likes to fly _fancy_. He's a bloody show-off, is what he is, but everybody loves to watch him. When he does his complicated loopy-twirly-upside-down tricks above the pitch, everybody cheers, and the idiots on the other teams fall for it every single time.

Peter likes to fly _high_. He's the one who broke the elevation charms on three of the school's Silver Arrows by taking them so far out of bounds that he came back damp with cloud mist and gasping for breath. He's the one who replaced all the flags atop of the Hogwarts towers with photographs of the Ravenclaw team in the locker room. When they play two-on-two on sunny Saturday afternoons, Peter's the one who circles up and away, until he's nothing more than a dark speck against the sky.

Sirius likes to fly _fast_. He'll challenge anybody and everybody to a race. Third year he almost became a chaser, but Gryffindor didn't need another chaser and the captain wanted to make good use of Sirius' gleeful willingness to smack bludgers directly into the opponents' faces. He is handy with a bat, but on and off the pitch, during and outside of a match, Sirius flies for speed, and there is only one other student who can keep up. He overhears the Slytherin captain talking to a teammate one day, and when the bloke says, "We'll have to get Black to cover his brother, he's the only one fast enough," Sirius feels a surge of pride -- _I taught him to fly_ \-- and ignores the unpleasant twist in his gut.

Remus likes to fly _dangerously_. Nobody else knows this, nobody except James and Peter, and they think that he's just goofing off. They joke about him flying too close to the stands, diving too close to the ground, not holding on properly, not paying attention. They think it's just for fun, that Remus is just careless and absentminded about flying like he is about potions and cleaning and so many other things.

Sirius knows better. It has taken him seven years to figure it out, seven years of after-curfew matches and summer races and midnight flights, but now he knows better.

"Sirius." Remus is standing by his bed. He's holding two brooms.

Light from the moon, one day short of full, slices through the opening in the heavy curtains. _The last full moon_, Sirius thinks, his mind groggy with sleep, _it will be our last full moon at Hogwarts._

Leaning over him, Remus whispers, "It's stopped raining."

He doesn't need to say anything else. Sirius is awake immediately, grabbing one of the brooms and jumping out of bed. He's wearing only a pair of flannel pajama trousers, but he doesn't bother dressing.

They slip out of the window into the chilly, damp night. Remus drops like a rock, lying flat along his broom and skimming down the side of the tower, then pulling up just before reaching the ground. Sirius follows, not trying to catch up -- not yet -- trailing the pale shape of Remus' t-shirt and bare feet across the grounds, toward the forest.

Remus vanishes into the shadows beneath the trees, and a second later, Sirius follows. The darkness swallows him whole, blocking the moonlight. His eyes are slow to adjust. Wet leaves slap at his face before his vision clears and he can concentrate on swerving between the trees, no more than a broom-length behind Remus. They are both laughing aloud as they dodge one thick black trunk only to veer toward another, and another, branches snagging at their skin and clothes like fingers, flashing from moonlight to shadow as they pass through small clearings and thickets.

Then Remus turns sharply -- too sharply -- and Sirius' heart stops as he sees Remus lose his balance, release his grip and _fall_, right into that bloody tree -- _fuck, he's going too fast_ \-- Sirius flies over, moving too quickly to stop, but loops back and sets down beside Remus.

"Fucking hell, Moony, are you--"

Remus is laughing. He's sprawled on the muddy forest floor at the base of a tree, laughing.

Sirius drops to his knees beside Remus. "Not hurt, then?"

Grinning, Remus struggles to sit up. "Nah," he says, "I'm fine."

There are leaves stuck in his hair, and blood trickles from a small scratch on his cheek, from where a branch caught him. Sirius reaches out and picks some of the leaves away. "You could've broke your neck, you fucking idiot."

"I'm fine," Remus says again, in a very different voice, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

This, too, Sirius knows better.

He leans forward to kiss Remus, and he _knows_. He's the luckiest fucking bloke in the universe to know this -- this Remus who's not quiet, not polite, not sensible, no matter what everybody else thinks, no matter what everybody else sees -- Sirius knows better.

Remus kisses him back, biting his lower lip playfully, then pushes Sirius' shoulders roughly and rolls on top of him, pinning Sirius to the uneven ground. There's a bloody sharp root jabbing into his back, but he doesn't care, not with Remus straddling his hips and kissing him breathless, then moving down, his tongue and lips on Sirius' neck, chest, stomach, hands pulling at his waistband -- "_Fuck, move, let me_\--" Sirius lifts his hips, gasps at the cold night air as Remus pulls his trousers down, and the gasp becomes a moan, and he arches on the rough ground, feels the tree root cutting his back and Remus' hot mouth closing over him and his fingers clawing at the mud and _oh, fuck, this is better than flying--_

-

_iv. roar_

Sirius has the bike for almost a year before he teaches her to fly.

There are more basic problems in the beginning. He cleans away years of grime and dirt, catching his breath as he reveals the golden scroll on the side. He spends weeks reading, pestering the Muggle mechanics in Godric's Hollow, learning the difference between the engine and the exhaust -- how the hell did Muggles keep all this stuff straight, anyway? -- taking her apart, putting her back together, taking her apart again, figuring out what made her run, and finally, _finally_ turning the key and hearing her roar to life, a sound so throaty and full he refuses to believe that she's not alive.

Flying takes a bit longer, but he gets it. Together, they get it. She is patient with him, forgiving him the time he tries to use a modified broom charm and they both end up tangled in Mrs. Potter's rosebushes. For every experiment, he promises to take her out for the night. He always tells her his plans, and he knows that she's listening.

Once, only once, James catches Sirius whispering to the bike in the shed. After he stops laughing -- a good ten minutes later -- and after Sirius stops pummeling him for his insolence -- a good twenty minutes later -- Sirius holds his wand to James' head and forces him to apologize to her.

Snickering and red-faced, James says to the bike with mock solemnity, "I am very sorry."

The bike gleams.

Sirius says, "She accepts your apology."

"You're barking."

"Quiet. You'll hurt her feelings."

"How d'ya know she's a girl?" James wants to know. He points at the logo. "Her name is 'Vincent,' after all."

"I just know," Sirius replies. "Trust me."

Sirius doesn't try to explain, not even to James. Even before she can fly, the bike is more than he can explain. He loves her bold, angry roar, wild yet controlled. He loves the solid weight of her, leaning around corners, accelerating on empty country lanes. He loves the hungry, slightly mad look in Remus' eyes when he asks if he can drive. He loves the way the Muggle girls watch them pass; he loves the jealous, admiring looks from other men on the streets. He loves the smell of leather on his skin, the slick of oil on his fingers, the feel of smooth, polished chrome beneath his palm.

He loves that she'll take him anywhere: midnight rides through the Potter's quiet neighborhood, almost like flying in the darkness, and long drives, scattering autumn leaves, growling through towns where nobody knows him, nobody sees more than a figure in black leather on a fine bike, and then they are gone.

One night he takes her to his parents' house, winding through the rundown neighborhood with the crumbling houses, and they stop just across the street. There is a single light visible, glowing yellow from his brother's window, and for a second Sirius wants to shout up, call him out and take him away from there -- but the thought passes.

Beneath his legs she is solid, warm, mechanical and _fast_; they race away from Grimmauld Place, never looking back.

And when he teaches her to fly, to really _fly_, he falls in love all over again.

It's late. The Potters are asleep. Even though he lives in his own flat now, they let him keep the motorbike in the barn behind their house, but he hasn't told them that he's here tonight. The summer night is quiet and calm.

Sirius steps back from the bike, lowering his wand. He can see the magic shimmering around her. He knows that it will work this time.

"Ready?" he asks.

She's ready.

Sirius rolls the bike from the barn and climbs on. He turns the key, lets her rumble for a few moments, then starts down the drive, toward the road. The narrow lanes outside Godric's Hollow are empty and dark. Sirius steers along the familiar roads until he finds the one he's looking for, Elmwood Lane, long and straight through the woods, with no houses at all this far from town. He turns onto the road and stops, resting his foot on the ground.

"Ready?" he asks again.

He revs the engine.

Even though he knows that the charms should work at any speed, he accelerates quickly, picking up as much speed as possible, ignoring the tingle of fear at the back of his mind.

It will work. He knows that it will work. He _knows_\--

"_Now._"

He pulls back slightly -- not much, only a gentle tug, it doesn't take much to make the charms respond -- and her front wheel lifts off the road. Sirius catches his breath. The rear wheel lifts, too, and he feels the sudden absence of friction, the sudden, subtle change in the noise.

_It's working, it's bloody working, holy fuck, it's working--_

Sirius glances down. The road is ten feet below him.

They are flying.

He lets out a wild whoop, urging her faster, skimming the tops of the trees. The forest, the gentle lights of the town, the dark expanse of ocean stretch before him, a map of familiar places made strange by the perspective, blanketed by the clear, starry sky. They climb. He is laughing and she is roaring in the darkness, away from the earth, aiming into the night.

-

_v. chained_

No Apparition. No Portkeys, no Floo, no brooms. No boats.

There is only one way to reach Azkaban: in a carriage drawn by winged horses.

Sirius is sitting between two Aurors. His hands and feet are bound by magical ropes. Crouch is sitting across from him, wearing the same thin, tight smile he had worn the day he announced Sirius' name as one of the Ministry's promising new Aurors.

They are over the ocean now. Sirius turns to look at the brilliant blue expanse, sparkling beneath the midday sun. His head is the only part of his body he's allowed to move. The day is clear and beautiful, and through the windows of the carriage a cool breeze carries the scent of the sea.

The carriage banks, and Sirius catches a glimpse of a horse's angelic white wing and the dark shape of the fortress beyond.

Sirius turns away from the window and closes his eyes. He swallows, inhales, exhales, and opens his eyes again. Crouch's expression has not changed.

The carriage descends, and that is when Sirius begins to panic.

~ ~ ~

_vi. escape_

Buckbeak has an unfortunate habit of chasing birds mid-flight. He dodges and dives without warning, his great wings beating unevenly as he reaches out to snatch a frantic bite of feathered prey from the air.

Sirius expects it now, after several days of clinging desperately to the hippogriff's neck, but his heart leaps into his throat every time.

They are flying south, but the wind is still cold. He lies as close as he can to Buckbeak's warmth, closing his eyes when they begin to water, sniffling ridiculously. Every time they descend to rest, he watches warily, anxiously, for dementors or Aurors, but there are no signs of pursuit.

They are flying south, the wrong direction. England is behind him now. Harry is behind him, alone again. The rat -- the rat is somewhere, somewhere hiding, creeping, crawling, lying -- the rat is behind him. Dumbledore is behind him, but he understands. And Remus -- _not at all, Padfoot, old friend_ \-- Remus is behind him, but he knows the truth now, he knows the truth and he knows about the rat--

They're all behind him, lost in the mist and haze far below. He knows he should feel guilty, because he is running away, but he feels only exhilaration to be _flying_ again, with nothing but his own wishes and a stubborn hippogriff dictating where he must go.

Buckbuck lunges again, snapping at a lazy seagull.

"Easy, now," Sirius says soothingly, his voice lost in the wind. "Let's go somewhere warm, eh? It's fucking cold up here."

-

_vii. falling_

When the message comes, he bursts from the house -- from the cage -- and nobody stops him.

He flings himself into the fight -- not even a proper battle, just a bloody skirmish, these fucking Death Eaters can't even fight a bunch of kids -- and nobody stops him.

Fighting is like flying -- and he's flying now, laughing in her wretched face, this is fucking _good_, all those months of being locked away, not allowed, not let out, but not now, _finally_ \-- and nobody stops him.

He's laughing when the curse strikes him in the chest. He stumbles backward, shocked, immobile, falling, _this is wrong_, swallowed by darkness -- and nobody stops him.

-

_viii. after_

His brother teaches him to fly.

It's the easiest thing in the world, his brother says, grinning with youthful enthusiasm that he had almost forgotten, with joy he had begun to doubt ever existed.

Easy, his brother says, just look toward the ocean, want wings, have wings, and _fly_.

It _is_ easy. He's surprised, then he's not, then he decides that he makes a rather dashing bird, sleek black feathers and canny eyes, if he does say so himself.

Arrogant bastard, his brother laughs. He always was clever, and now he can talk in spite of the beak, a trick that isn't easy to master. He's still laughing, a funny, infectious bird-laugh, when he says, Maybe you're prettier, but I'm still faster.

They soar on the gentle wind, high above the sunburnt sand and golden ocean, above the mountains that glisten with clean, fresh snow. This is a land of eternal sunset, or eternal sunrise, it doesn't much matter which. There isn't any need for questions or worries or doubts. It doesn't matter if they are birds or boys, flying or digging in the sand, sleeping in the sun or swimming in the ocean. But mostly flying.

They sweep down over the beach, no longer racing, just flying.

Then his brother says, Look.

There is a lone figure on the beach, walking slowly along the sand, leaving a trail of dark footprints behind him.

His brother says, teasingly, Go on, then.

Then his brother is gone, veering away toward the hills, laughing, always laughing.

He floats down toward the sand, toward the lone figure. He lights on the sand behind the man. The beat of his wings draws the man's attention, and he turns around.

Oh, he thinks, belatedly, better be human for this. _Easy_.

The man is tired, worn and grey and weary, but familiar. The tiredness will vanish, he knows, it does for everybody, years and pain fading away as they recall who they are supposed to be. He looks like he can barely walk now, but soon he will learn to fly.

"Ah," the man says, smiling. The smile transforms his face. "There you are."

He steps forward, opens his arms, draws the man into a tight embrace. "Yeah," he whispers, resting his face against the man's neck, closing his eyes. "Here I am."


End file.
